We Used to be Married
by Flashback 1701
Summary: Before there was the Kingdom of Prussia, there was Brandenburg-Prussia. This is a collection of oneshots detailing the familiar relationship between Gilbert Beilschmidt and Friedrich Bergher. OC. No romance. Rated for language.
1. Implications of a Cold

Hetaverse. Oneshot. Includes an OC for the Federal State of Brandenburg (Friedrich Bergher). No pairings.

* * *

><p>The man had arrived in Potsdam with a sour expression stretched across his pale face, his crimson-tinted eyes fixed stubbornly upon the individual waiting for him on the platform.<p>

"You know, you could've driven," were the first words spoken between the old friends as they shook hands firmly. "It's not so far from Berlin."

Gilbert Beilschmidt, formerly Prussia, shrugged and held out a suitcase to his companion. "West's the only one with a car these days, and he wasn't gonna lend it to me for this."

"I guess you're right." Friedrich Bergher, currently the Federal State of Brandenburg, accepted the luggage with a tired grin. "How_ is_ our little brother, anyway? I haven't seen him since our last meeting in Hamburg…"

"He's fine, the same little hard ass as always."

Sensing the sharpness of the other's reply, the state let the conversation die peacefully in favor of leading Gilbert out to his car.

To be quite honest, the former military power looked ill, his naturally pasty complexion taking on a grayish hue that darkened beneath bloodshot eyes to form weary shadows. Everything from his disheveled white-blond hair to his carelessly sagging clothing seemed to be signing with absolute exhaustion. Even his gait was exaggeratedly slow.

"You look like hell, Beilschmidt," Friedrich said finally, closing the driver's side door behind him. Quickly rubbing his semi-frozen hands together for warmth, he dug his keys from the pocket of his winter coat and set the car into gear.

Gilbert didn't respond to the jibe, instead occupying himself by carefully adjusting the air vents to allow the heat to blast violently against his stiff fingers.

"Everything alright in Berlin?" he prompted, not taking his storm-blue gaze from the potentially icy street. "We're not facing another peasant uprising, are we?"

"I wish." Rolling his eyes, the would-be Prussian grumbled, "It's boring as hell and all West does is bitch."

"Well, he learned from the best."

"Shut up, Bergher."

Friedrich smirked, relieved to hear Gilbert sounding like his usual, less-troubled self. "So everything's going well?"

"More or less." He shrugged, setting slush-logged boots against the dashboard. Opening his mouth to add what was probably a harsh attempt at crude humor, the albino did something strange – he sneezed.

This action wasn't completely unheard of, but it was the manner in which it was conducted that threw Friedrich for a loop. It wasn't an ordinary, speck-of-dust-up-the-nose sort of sneeze, rather it was an I'm-definitely-under-the-weather type that sent an unattractive glob of phlegm hurtling forward to stick to the windshield. Burying his face in his hands, Gilbert sneezed again, then once more before straightening up with a groan.

"I thought you said things in Berlin were going well," the state snorted, somewhat miffed at his friend's dishonesty. "It's not like I wouldn't have found out eventually."

"But it is." He rubbed at watering eyes before turning to glare at the other German.

And, provided what he said was true, that was exactly why it was so odd that Gilbert had sneezed. Every state, nation, territory, and principality knew that their ails were directly tied to the misfortunes of their citizens, economy, or government. However, here was a former kingdom insisting that he had a cold for no obvious reason.

"That's a metric ton of horse shit." Dropping his usual, diplomatic air, Friedrich glanced at his passenger from the corner of his eye. "We don't just 'get sick' for no reason."

"Maybe_ you _don't," Gilbert snapped, his scowl dissolving in favor of another violent sneeze.

The other male caught the unspoken reference to his friend's non-existence and heaved a low sigh. "What's wrong?"

"What'dya mean 'what's wrong?' I told you, I'm totally awesome right now."

"We were married, Gilbert. I can tell when you're lying – you're mostly bad at it, anyway."

Half wincing, half laughing at the memory, the albino stared up at the ceiling of the vehicle. "I've got a cold."

"I figured that one out already."

"I don't heal as quickly as I used to, either." He held up a bandaged finger for the driver to see. "I cut myself two days ago while I was chopping potatoes and it's just _now_ starting to close up."

_I'm not like you anymore, _Gilbert seemed to be whispering, collapsing in on himself. _I'm losing my hold on our world and falling into a mundane, human existence… a mortal existence._

Tightening his lips as he sorted through all the different speech options available to him, Friedrich finally settled upon, "In that case, be careful. I don't want to get a call from Ludwig saying that you've been… flattened by train or something like that."

"I wouldn't… I'd live." He dropped his gaze to peer at the sandy blond state looking sullen and frustrated. "It's not like it would too much for me to handle or anything."

"There's nothing Prussia can't handle." A fond grin slid across Friedrich's thin lips as he playfully slugged the other's shoulder. "I learned that one a long time ago."


	2. Iron Keepsake

Hetaverse. Brandenburg OC. Slightly Prussia centric.

This fic is written from the point of view of my Brandenburg OC, Friedrich Bergher (I have sketches of him on my DA account - my username is firefly-fighter).

Friedrich Wilhelm, the Great Elector, awarded the first Iron Cross in 1813. He is quoted in this fic. Adolf Hitler revived the medal in 1939.

* * *

><p>He knew the negative reputation held by the small, iron medal; he saw the cold glares cast upon him by those who glimpsed it past the unfastened collar of his dress shirt. Despite the cruelty and bloodshed associated with the simple decoration, Friedrich couldn't bring himself to part with it. Both Ludwig and Gilbert still wore their own crosses tucked away beneath years of guilt and shame, anxious to avoid any accusations of a second rise of a certain, unfortunate political party. But they, too, had clung to the symbol even in the face of the countless trials faced by the German peoples.<p>

It had been, long before the coming to power of one Adolf Hitler, a humble Prussian medal, crafted to reflect the kingdom's values. The cross was made not of gold, not of silver, not of bronze; it was smithed of iron, the very substance that had sustained the Prussians through one battled after another. It had once shown all who had seen it that the wearer – be him general, officer, or private – possessed the courage and aptitude for leadership that the kingdom himself so prized. Above all, the practical metal had suited Gilbert perfectly in an era in which the vast majority of his goals could be reached with "only iron and determination."

In those days, Friedrich had worn the decoration proudly upon his breast, pleased that he had been so favorably viewed by their shared superiors. If only glory days were allowed to last.

Due to the mistakes of a crippled nation and his misguided obedience to a smooth-talking madman, the Iron Cross had become a soiled, undesirable prize worn by only the worst sort of anti-Semitic. Blinded by the events of the last century, humans and nations alike scoffed at the plain-looking badge of dishonor. It mattered little whether Friedrich had earned it in 1813 or in 1939, the onlookers only saw the flicker of a red flag marred with the encircled emblem of a movement and turned away in disgust.

"I _am _proud," he would insist to his reflection, hair damp from the shower as the decoration stood boldly against his pale, scarred flesh.

_Liar, _his reflection would hiss, blue-gray eyes narrowing reproachfully when he pulled on his shirt and tucked the cross out of sight. _Liar._

"Maybe someday," he would continue, catching the gaze of the stubborn, irritable man in the glass. "Things will change and we will be able to be proud once more."


	3. State of Inebriation

Hetaverse. Oneshot. Prussia and Brandenburg - no romance/no pairings.

Summary: A night of drinking uncovers insecurities on Gilbert's part and thoughtless comments on Friedrich's.

A/N: I was originally going to withhold this until I managed to write a happier story, but Arya May gave me a prompt very similar to what I had already written, thus inviting me to post this. I promise, promise, promise the next story will be more light-hearted!

* * *

><p>The night flowed thick with beer as the Germans made well on their national stereotype by releasing their daily stress in favor of imbibing gracious amounts of their best loved drink.<p>

"Oi, Gilbert!" Friedrich managed to extract himself from the crowd of states surrounding the bar and stumbled to the booth currently occupied by a brooding former nation. "What're you doin' over here, ya nutty bastard?"

"Drunk already, Bergher?" the albino snorted, lifting his eyes slowly from his mug. "Sit down before you embarrass yourself."

Setting his fists to his hips, he insisted, "I'm not drunk."

"You're completely shitfaced. Sit down."

He did.

Tonight, Gilbert looked tired as he nursed his beer in a decidedly sullen silence. Though he displayed none of the usual characteristics of an intoxicated being, the state sensed that his friend had already consumed far more than he. Being in the mournful state of his inebriation, the former kingdom's blood was very possibly somewhere near three fourths alcohol.

"Wassuh matter?" Friedrich ventured, wiping sloppily at his liquor-damp lips. "You're bein' awful damn quiet, 'n' that's never a good thing…"

"I'm thinking – you should try it sometime." The slur edged slowly into his words as he emptied his mug. A doleful, scarlet gaze fluttered down to the scuffed surface of the table where his pale finger traced pointless designs on the pockmarked wood. "How 'bout you? Why aren't you back there with the guys?"

"Y'looked lonely."

"I'm too awesome to waste my time with those losers."

At the bar, the states were cracking jokes and applauding as their young nation took up his position beside a broadly grinning male.

"Looks like our _Brüderlein_ challenged Bavaria again." The sandy-blonde shook his head with a soft, tentative chortle. "Didn't he learn his lesson last time?"

"The brat's got a thick skull – once he gets his mind set on something, he won't freaking quit, the little dumbass."

Perhaps it was because he had taken so much after Gilbert, the state found himself thinking. The young Germanic shared with the Prussian his strict, militaristic behavior and his unwavering, pigheaded drive to achieve his ends no matter the cost (which, in this case, would be Ludwig's having to deal with a hell of a hangover on the day of a world conference). The two nation brothers were really quite similar when one took the time to examine their characteristics: both were fiercely loyal, both were entirely devoted to their children, and both held themselves with a pride that could be read in the rigid set of their shoulders and the confident glint of their eyes.

Returning to his drink, Friedrich sighed. "He's gotten t'be a good kid. You're just bein' a dick again, Gil."

"Yeah, well, least I'm not drunk off my ass like some pansy Brit."

Friedrich frowned grumpily, pride stinging. "At least _I'm_ not drownin' in my self pity, at least _I_ still exists, at least _I_-"

"Forget this." Hands clenched into fists, the albino was on his feet in a fraction of a second. "I'm outta here. Fuck yourself, Brandenburg."

Knowing he could say nothing to fix his thoughtless words until they were both sober and could think clearly once more, the state simply replied, "Same to you, Prussia."

Looking furious, hurt, and perturbed, Gilbert spun around and stalked to the exit. In that moment, Friedrich could feel his isolation, the invisible wall that separated the ex-nation from the other Germans. The lone figure stood dark in the doorway through which the street lights shone with their unnatural, yellow hue, his back turned to the laughter and joviality of his former companions as he seemed to hesitate. Then, with the high squeal of the hinges, he was gone.


End file.
